


The Knife

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Depression, Gen, Guilt, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hawke’s death in the Fade, Maxwell Trevelyan is overcome with guilt. He handles it through his own methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knife

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Big trigger warning for self-harm in this story.

He tells Varric as soon as he gets back.

For the first few days of the journey from Adamant he anticipated the moment with dread, the guilt, the needle-sharp regret seething unsettled in the pit of his stomach. But as they rode eastward he found the feeling had transmuted itself, as a mess of ingredients folded together into a smooth batter. He knows how to deal with this. There isn’t anything to worry about. He’ll satisfy the guilt, soon enough. For as long as it takes.

The certainty assuages him, even as he walks up the stairs to Skyhold’s great hall. It is a relief, the knowledge that he can  _do something._ That his actions will not go with consequence.

When Maxwell delivers the news Varric’s face breaks in half.

That is its own relief. The fault is acknowledged. He was their leader, after all, and he is the one with the Anchor. They all trusted him to guide them to safety. But he failed, that’s all there is to it, he made some awful mistake somewhere, or maybe a few along the way. And now Hawke is dead, and it isn’t anyone else’s fault, only his own.

He catches Cassandra outside. “Please ask Cole to stay away from me for a bit, would you?”

She nods, understanding. “Of course.” She thinks he needs to deal with this alone, without the unpredictable aid of a spirit who can see into his head. Well, she isn’t quite  _wrong._  Maxwell does not elaborate.

As he enters the hall again he realizes there are a dozen things that need doing urgently. He must speak with Cullen, to situate himself with their new position; Leliana, to find out where they go from here; Josephine, to learn what effect the Grey Wardens’ treachery revealed has had on the political climate. And he needs to eat. Or not, really. It isn’t very important. The rest of the things he arranges in his head, building a schedule for the afternoon.  _Josephine first. Then Leliana, then Cullen. Then I can go hurt myself._  The dryness with which he adds that last event makes him half-smile as he pushes open the door to Josie’s makeshift office.

By the end of the meeting he is restless and fidgety, tugging at his sleeves, tracing his collarbone, rubbing the edge of Josie’s desk with one thumb. But he is not impatient with her. She has an important job and works very hard to keep everything running as it should, and it would be unfair to hurry her along for his own sake. Next he talks with Leliana. Her crows eye him, lined up on the railing where he sits, making small, rasping noises which he interprets, for no real reason, as sympathy. It’s comforting, and he even begins to feel a little bit badly about what he has planned after all this official business is over.

Then he goes back down the tower, and Dorian is there, and Maxwell ducks his head and hurries past because he cannot speak to anyone, he cannot listen to them tell him how sorry they are, how difficult this all must be for him, and how brave he has been. They are only being kind. It is pity. The fault is obvious, a gaping wound splashed across his face.  

He should not have saved Cullen for last.

Casualties. Cullen lists the numbers, describes how he plans to honor the dead and compensate their families. Maxwell stands frozen, numb, his fingertips just barely touching the map spread out on the desk. He listens, of course. He must hear this. So many, all at once. Wasn’t there a better way? Shouldn’t he have thought of something safer, cleverer?

It’s too late now.

The evening air is dry and brisk. He heaves in breaths but can’t get enough of it. With each passing second his chest grows tighter and tighter. He climbs the stairs two at a time, tracing his collarbone with absent fingers. He  _needs_  to get back to his room,  _right now_. He needs to strip off his shirt and stand in front of the mirror—

A grunt, and Maxwell stumbles back, only to be caught by a pair of large hands. 

“Sorry about that, boss. Didn’t see you coming around the corner.” Bull stands there in the doorway, frowning a little. “Hey, you don’t look so good. Do you want to—“

“I just—“ Maxwell shivers convulsively, shrugging Bull’s hands off. “I’d just like to head back to my quarters right now. But thank you.”

Bull pauses, then nods, letting him go. “Right. See you tomorrow.”

Maxwell brushes past and into the hall. At last. At last. He strides forward, pushes open the door, ascends the stairs to his bedroom—goes inside, locks the door behind him.

At last he is alone.

The knife isn’t anything special. He takes it from the bottom drawer of his desk, where it lies on its edge among a forest of spare ink bottles. He got it back in Haven, when he needed an extra to keep at his belt and Harritt happened to have one lying around. It’s small, the blade no longer than his palm. The sight of it reassures him, and he places it on the desk. Next he sheds his coat, folding it over the back of the chair, and then his shirt. He undoes the buttons without haste. The knife is there, it’s ready.

He drapes his shirt over the coat, then picks up the knife and goes to the full-length mirror next to his bed.

Even with the brass heating pipes running under the floor, the room is still a bit cold, and he hugs himself, folding his arms around his naked chest. Has he been getting thinner? Probably. He used to look forward to meals, but that isn’t really the case anymore. Maybe he’s just grown bored of Skyhold’s kitchens. He runs his fingers down his ribs, feels the dip at his waist before the slight flare of his hips. His trousers have been looser, that’s for sure. He had to exchange his own for new ones a couple of weeks ago.

He traces under his collarbone.

There aren’t any scars—he never cuts very deeply. But he likes that place, likes the parallel paths that the cuts make with the line of his collarbone and the shadow beneath. It’s pleasing to him, the sight of it. For a moment he just rubs the area, very lightly, making circles in the fine hair there, feeling the swirl of his fingertips.

Then he raises the knife.

It takes some force to draw blood, but he applies only just enough. Once the skin is broken, it’s easy to draw out the cut. Little globules of blood well like dewdrops, delicate, quivering. He touches one with the tip of the knife, and it breaks, trickling down his chest.

Maxwell breathes out, relaxing at last.

It doesn’t hurt very much. He doesn’t think he would care if it did, but the pain isn’t the point. It’s the act. He lowers the blade a half-inch and digs it in again. There are moments in the days following when his clothes catch on the scabs and it does hurt, just a brief twinge. Those moments calm him too. Not because it hurts, but because they remind him of this, of what he has done. How the guilt has been satisfied, the debt paid, at least in part. He draws the knife to the side, watches it part the skin, the red welling up from beneath—

There’s a knock at the door.

Maxwell curses in his head. “I’m resting,” he calls. “Can it wait half an hour?”

“I don’t think it can.”

Bull’s voice. Why is he here? Maxwell tries again. “Please, I’m  _very_ tired—“

“You need to let me in. Now.”

Shit. What is he doing? “Bull, I can’t—“

“Why?”

Shit. Maxwell tries to think, but his mind is elsewhere and he hasn’t dragged it back. “I’m—I’m resting—“

There’s a  _crack_  as the lock breaks, and Bull pushes the door open.

Maxwell stands there, the bloodied knife at his chest, and the two red lines beneath, shameful evidence of his wrongdoing. He tosses the blade to the bed, claps his hand over the cuts. “Bull, what are you—why did you come in?!”

“Because you didn’t look so good.”

He doesn’t seem surprised, doesn’t throw himself cross the room begging Maxwell to stop. Instead he goes to the washroom. “I asked the Seeker if she’d talked to you. She told me what you said about Cole. Figured you might be doing something you didn’t want him to know about.” He emerges with a wet cloth. “So yeah, I came in. The lock might need replacing, by the way. Sorry.”

Maxwell turns away, the shame shifting in him. His eyes narrow in anger. “You had no right to just barge in here.”

“Yeah.” Bull reaches out, grasps the hand covering the cuts, lifts it gently away. “How long’s this been going on?”

Maxwell gazes at his palm, the red smears on his fingers. “A few months,” he mutters.

Bull presses the cloth to the cuts. Maxwell hisses. The soap stings. Then Bull takes Maxwell’s fingers and scrubs them clean. “So, it started after you got this job, huh?”

“Yes.”  

“Why do you do it?”

Maxwell shrugs with one shoulder. “It helps me feel better. And it’s harmless, look, I barely even broke the skin.”

“It’s not harmless.” Bull’s voice is hard, but he relents, patting Maxwell’s chest dry with the edge of the cloth. “You don’t deserve to get hurt. Doesn’t matter by whose hand.”

“None of these people deserve to get hurt.” Maxwell gestures towards the northern wall of the bedroom, beyond which lies the courtyard. He smiles, faintly hysterical. “And yet  _somehow,_  it just keeps on happening! I’m supposed to be leading everyone, but you wouldn’t  _believe_  how many we lost at Adamant—“

Bull cuts him off. “Pretty sure it was the demons that killed them. Not you.”

“But I asked them to go there!” Maxwell stares at Bull, desperate, willing him to understand. “They did it for  _me._  They trusted me.”

“You think they didn’t know they might die?” Bull lifts an eyebrow. “It was a crap situation. Boss,  _you_ could’ve died. You were all taking the same risks.” He squeezes Maxwell’s arm. “There’s a war on. Some greedy Vint asshole is trying to wipe us out. Not everybody gets to live. And that’s not something you can change. But they know that, we all know that. You’re the only one who’s blaming you.”

Maxwell folds his arms, hugging himself. “I should be better,” he murmurs. “I should be smarter. Things might be different.”

“No.” Bull lifts Maxwell’s face. “You got this title because you’re the best man for the job. We wanted  _you_  to lead us, just as you are now.”

He finds the contact of Bull’s palm against his cheek comforting, despite himself. “What, so—they just die, and that’s it? And I’m not expected to do anything about it?”

“You  _are_  doing something. Just freed the Grey Wardens, didn’t you? And stopped a civil war before that? You know how many people you’ve saved the last three months alone?”

Oh. He—hadn’t thought about it. Maxwell stares at his hand, at the little bubbles of soap collecting at the edges of his fingernails.

Then he finds he’s being pulled into Bull’s chest.

Bull does not smell like the sweat of battle or the blood of his enemies, which were the first two ideas Maxwell had vaguely entertained before this moment. Instead he smells like lemongrass soap. “Are you hugging me?” Maxwell mumbles.

“Yeah. Uh—you want me to stop?”

Maxwell shakes his head. “No.”

They’re quiet for a moment. It is nice having someone hold him—he hasn’t been touched like this, or at all, really, not recently. Then Bull speaks. “Listen, if you ever feel like doing this again…try coming to talk to me first. Or Cassandra, or Cole, or any of us. You don’t have to get through this alone.”

Maxwell thinks about it. He still doesn’t see the harm—the cuts are small,  _so_  small. But it’s bad, he knows, although he doesn’t really understand the reason. And Bull obviously doesn’t want him to do it again, and he trusts Bull. So he can try to stop. He  _will_  try. See if he can find another way to soothe the guilt. “Er—have you eaten yet?”

“No, why? You hungry?”

“Yes, rather.”

“All right then. Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll head down to the kitchens?”

Maxwell extracts himself from Bull’s arms and goes into his closet for a clean shirt. The cuts, shallow as they are, have stopped bleeding already. When he turns Bull’s got the knife, and he holds it up. “You mind if I keep this?”

Maxwell blinks. “I—no, it’s all yours.”

“All right.” He slips it in his pocket.

Maxwell finds the lock is  _quite_  broken. He’s fiddling with it when Bull comes up and sees the damage. “Oh. Yeah…sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry.” Maxwell glances up and smiles. “I don’t mind.”


End file.
